


With Naught But a Look

by TheMarvelousMadMadamMim



Series: A Summer in Cintra [3]
Category: The Witcher (TV)
Genre: F/M, Mother/Daughter Bonding, look I just need to know that Calanthe and Pavetta truly could connect in the end
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-14
Updated: 2020-03-14
Packaged: 2021-02-28 23:09:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,504
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23145226
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheMarvelousMadMadamMim/pseuds/TheMarvelousMadMadamMim
Summary: Pavetta joins Ciri and her grandparents for a trip to the river.
Relationships: Calanthe Fiona Riannon & Pavetta Fiona Elen, Calanthe Fiona Riannon/Eist Tuirseach
Series: A Summer in Cintra [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1658368
Comments: 10
Kudos: 51





	With Naught But a Look

**Author's Note:**

> As usual, the title comes from Her Sweet Kiss (lemme tell you, trying to find a match among the lyrics for this one was not easy, but dammit, #fortheaesthetic).

Not for the first time, Pavetta feels mildly uncomfortable, as if perhaps she’s intruding on a private moment between her mother and Eist.

Just yesterday, she and Duny had returned from their emissary visit to Sodden—only to learn that Eist had begun teaching their daughter to swim. And that apparently, almost without fail, whenever Ciri chirped, “Swim, swim!”, Calanthe would bundle the child up and head to the river. Further proving once again that her own transformation since Cirilla’s birth was even more astounding than the ending of Duny’s curse.

Pavetta tried not to pout about it. It isn't the first time that she's noticed how differently Calanthe approaches her granddaughter, versus how she approached her daughter. Once Pavetta pointed out that her mother never would have indulged such caprices when Pavetta was a child. Calanthe had merely blinked, as if surprised by such an accusation. _Only because you never asked. You never made demands at all, my love._

Pavetta still feels that isn’t entirely true, but she knows to choose her battles.

Besides, it’s obvious that these excursions bring Ciri such absolute joy. Duny is already off again, traveling to Erlenwald to see how things have fared in his absence. His region is small, but it has a diligent and involved ruler, she thinks with a proud smile. He will be a good king, someday.

The current king is walking just ahead of her, holding Ciri’s left hand as Calanthe holds her right. They keep counting to three and swinging her whole body forward, little legs kicking excitedly as Ciri squeals in delight before devolving into more giggles.

They also keep glancing over at each other, warm smiles at the corners of their eyes. They always look like that, Pavetta thinks. Like they’re sharing an unspoken secret. They always _have_ looked at each other like that, for as long as she can remember.

She tries to remember how her father looked at her mother, and vice versa. Finds it hard to do, muddled by time and emotional distance. It wasn’t until Roegner’s death that he confessed to Pavetta’s status as a child of surprise, so naturally, Calanthe’s entire legacy with the man had been tainted by a bitter, gnawing wound of mistrust that was never fully closed, because she’d barely begun to process it before he slipped past the mortal veil.

Calanthe had been unbearable for months afterwards. A woman possessed, trying to find out as much of her dead husband’s secrets as possible, trying to piece together the puzzle of the man, to see how much of what she knew of him was actual truth, how much was a lie that had turned her into a fool, how much might still be hiding in the shadows, waiting to surprise her in the worst of ways.

Pavetta understands. She always has, in a way. But now she truly _knows_ , having her own child with a claim hanging over her head. She thinks perhaps she’s a bit luckier than her mother, though, because she knows that she has her mother's support. Her grandmother was a docile thing, always accepting her fate. Calanthe, on the other hand, would murder an entire continent with her bare hands and a smile, if that’s what it took to keep Cirilla with her family.

Ciri swings into the air again. Before her feet hit the ground, she’s already begging, “More, more!”

“Always more with this one, never satisfied,” Eist shakes his head. With a grin, he adds, “Takes after her grandmother.”

Calanthe slowly turns her gaze back to him, one brow arching with an incredulous burning that silently asks him if he’d like to reconsider his words. Eist merely grins, a braver man than most. Her mother’s lips press into a hard line—less out of anger and more out of an attempt not to smile as well.

Again, Pavetta feels like an intruder.

Frustration flutters through her lungs at the thought. It’s _her_ daughter between them, and she’s somehow the one who shouldn’t be here.

She knows she’s being petty. But it does sting—she’s been away for nearly two weeks, and yet, by mid-morning, Ciri was already tired of her, crying for her beloved Lie-na. And Calanthe had sailed in, open arms and wide smile, eager to appease her tiny overlord.

Not for the first time, Pavetta thinks her mother has finally gotten the daughter she always wanted. After being saddled with Pavetta for eighteen years, Cirilla must seem like her reward for enduring such a tedious child.

Eist is scooping Ciri into his arms, despite her squirming and whiny pleading for more swings.

“You’ve had enough for now,” he informs her, as patient and unaffected by her toddler antics as always. In a serious tone, he explains, “If we keep on, it will put too much stress on your arms. And then where will you be?”

He’s always spoken to her like that. Like she was a rational adult, from the hour of her birth. Granted, Calanthe generally does too, but Eist’s predicament is made more humorous by the fact that he still sings her silly songs and tweaks her nose and uses ridiculous voices when telling bedtime stories, and will literally crawl upon the floor with her. Like they’re equals who’ve mutually agreed to just behave as children, for a time.

“Darling?” Calanthe’s voice catches her attention. Pavetta blinks, realizing that her mother has stopped, waiting for her to catch up. Once she does, Calanthe slips her arm through Pavetta’s, like they used to do when Pavetta was younger, walking quietly through the rose gardens.

“Everything alright?” Calanthe’s voice is gentle, tinged with concern. Sometimes it is still difficult to reconcile—the woman who almost murdered her husband is also the mother who handled her with such tenderness, even though she was often exasperated by Pavetta’s interests and inclinations.

“I’m fine,” Pavetta assures her, lightly patting the forearm wrapped around her own. “Just…exhausted from the journey.”

Calanthe hums in understanding, doesn’t speak again as they traverse the field, finally reaching the line of birches that mark the edge of the steep, sandy bank.

Eist hands Ciri to Calanthe, then gingerly makes his way down. Calanthe hands the child back down to him.

“It’s not _that_ steep,” Pavetta notes.

“Your mother is both a warrior and a worrier,” Eist’s tired tone informs her that they’ve had multiple conversations over this exact thing.

“Apologies for loving my granddaughter enough to have a care for her safety,” Calanthe deadpans in return. She holds out her hand to Pavetta, as if to help her down as well.

Pavetta rolls her eyes, but takes her mother’s hand all the same.

She sits next to Calanthe in the shade of the trees as Ciri and Eist wade into the water. Ciri is beaming back at them as Eist’s hands under her stomach guide her over the top of the water. Occasionally she actually kicks her adorably chubby little legs, but for the most part, she’s content to let her grandfather do all the work. Her beam increases tenfold when Calanthe calls out to her, telling her how wonderfully she’s doing, how strong she is when she does kick.

Ciri and Eist splash and laugh together. He pretends to be shocked and indignant when Ciri dunks her hands into the water and pats them on his face. He nibbles at her fingers and she squeals, yanking her hand away but then immediately pushing it up against his mouth again. It becomes a game; she tries to pull back before he snaps at her, both of them watching each other in feigned wariness and occasionally simply devolving into laughter over nothing.

Pavetta is almost startled by the sound of laughter bubbling from her mother’s throat, easy and without any hint of scorn or sarcasm. She looks over, feeling another ripple of surprise by the open joy in Calanthe’s expression as she watches her husband and her granddaughter play.

Now she understands exactly why Calanthe gives in so easily to Ciri’s demands to swim—because _Calanthe_ enjoys it, perhaps even more than her granddaughter actually does.

Pavetta has been around her fair share of royals and nobles. Some are so accustomed to their way of life that they truly forget that the person pouring their ale or brushing their hair or waiting quietly in the corner of the room is still a person, still listening, still watching them. Calanthe has never been one of those people. She’s never forgotten that so few moments can be truly unguarded—and in turn, she’s taught Pavetta to be extremely aware of the guards outside her chamber door, or Ciri’s nursemaid waiting patiently in the next room, or the scullery maid scrubbing the cobblestones beneath her open window (honestly, that was how Pavetta was able to see Duny in secret for so long—she paid attention, knew how to find a way to make herself truly alone, how to keep tongues from wagging, how to shield herself both literally and figuratively). And because Calanthe is always aware, she almost always performs, always tightly controls the image she has built as the mighty and terrible lioness.

But here, at the bank of the river, Calanthe is truly free from scrutiny. There isn’t another living soul for a good quarter of a mile in any direction, perhaps even farther.

Pavetta’s throat tightens at the thought of her mother, sneaking away just so she can smile at the ones she loves without being seen as weak.

She lets her hand slip over Calanthe’s, giving a hard squeeze.

Calanthe blinks, looks back to her with questioning eyes.

“It’s lovely here,” Pavetta supplies, though that doesn’t really answer her mother’s unspoken question.

Still, Calanthe smiles. “It is, isn’t it?”

“Madame, doth thou impugn upon mine honor?” Eist’s voice bellows from the river. He’s holding Ciri out at arm’s length, a ridiculously overwrought expression of feigned anger on his expression.

Ciri stares at him a beat, mouth open in a wide, devious grin. Then, with a kick of her foot, which sprays more water into his face, she crows, “Yes!”

It sounds like _yeth_ , and Pavetta finds herself laughing at the adorableness of her daughter’s pronunciation. Every day, there are more words in Ciri’s vocabulary. She swears the child grew three inches during her time away and learned a hundred new words as well. Her hair seems longer and her face seems leaner, too.

Eist tosses Ciri high, vowing retribution for her grievous acts. Somehow, his words do not instill fear in anyone listening, least of all the tow-headed madcap giggling delightedly.

Calanthe turns her hand, still clasped in Pavetta’s, allowing her thumb to light stroke over the ridges of her daughter’s knuckles.

“Will you have another?” She asks, tone light, uncommitted to an outcome.

“Not for a while yet,” Pavetta answers, equally nonchalant. She thanks heaven above that her mother doesn’t constantly push for more heirs, the way some do. There is trust in the lack of pushing, a sense of respect that Pavetta hasn’t always felt between them.

Then again, now Calanthe fully knows what her daughter can do, when feeling cornered. So perhaps that helps.

Sometimes, Pavetta truly does think it is fear that tinges Calanthe’s respect. Sometimes, she can convince herself that it _was_ borne that night, but not of fear—rather because of Pavetta’s own courage, her ability to stand against her mother and half a dozen kingdoms and make her own choice about her own fate. It was the moment that Calanthe realized Pavetta didn’t have to stomp around in armor or wield a bloody sword to be strong and command the obedience of others. The moment Calanthe realized that once she left this plane, Pavetta would survive just fine on her own.

“I want more, certainly,” she adds. With a slight shrug, she tries to keep her tone unaffected as possible, “Duny thinks we should wait….see if Ciri possesses the gift.”

Calanthe shifts fully towards her, every muscle lined with a dozen unspoken questions.

Pavetta clarifies, “If she does, he thinks that perhaps we shouldn’t have any more.”

It is obvious that Calanthe doesn’t agree with such an idea. However, by some minor miracle, she bites her tongue.

Still, she shifts her gaze back to the river, quietly pointing out, “Well, you don’t necessarily need Duny’s _input_ to have another child.”

Pavetta stiffens at the implication. “Mother, I love him.”

“Yes, well, I’m not saying you have to fall in love with whomever else you fuck.”

“Mother!”

“Oh will you please _for once_ not act as if I didn’t raise you,” Calanthe rolls her eyes. “Fuck. Fucking. You know the word; you know enough about the act. You were never taught to be pious or coy about it, that’s for certain.”

“No need to be lewd, either.”

“Suggesting that you find an alternative if someone denies you something you want—something you _deserve_ to have, if you want it—isn’t lewd.” Calanthe seems a bit offended. “Besides, you can still love Duny with all your heart and still be a good and honorable wife and _still_ find another man to give you a child.”

Pavetta considers this. Considers, not for the first time, the words her mother hissed to her, at her marriage feast: _You can have who you want when you’re married_.

It finally seems like the safest time to ask, “Would you ever do something like that to my father?”

Calanthe considers the question. Then she shrugs, “He probably did it to me, and far more than once.”

“I’m not talking about his morals—I’m talking about yours,” Pavetta persists. Calanthe doesn’t answer. So she prompts, “Would you ever do something like that to Eist?”

For a brief flash, Pavetta thinks her mother might actually round on her with a fist—Calanthe turns so sharply that it makes Pavetta sit back, seeking distance between them.

“What I owed your father and what I owe Eist are two entirely different types of loyalty,” she informs her daughter. “Do not ever confuse the two.”

“The difference being that you actually love Eist.”

The words sit, heavy with implication. Calanthe blinks. The fight leaves her shoulders, which slump forward slightly. She looks off, away from Pavetta.

“It doesn’t matter,” Calanthe keeps her tone low. “I’m not one for bearing children anymore.”

“Not for lack of trying,” Pavetta mutters, half-hoping her mother doesn’t actually hear her. But Pavetta’s heard all the court gossip, just as easily as anyone. The herbs and satchels her mother buys. The number of times the queen’s private guards have been posted outside her bedroom chambers, in the middle of the day.

Now Calanthe begins to laugh, breathless and incredulous. Tone tinged with wry amusement, she chides, “Don’t believe everything you hear at court, my dear. I thought I had long since taught you that.”

“Then am I assume that you two _really_ had to leave the dinner table last night because of an actual raven from Cidaris about attacks on pearl traders’ ships?”

Her mother’s smirk answers before her mouth does. Not that Pavetta hadn’t already known—the lie was ridiculous to begin with, and those two with their burning looks and blushing cheeks, like a pair of teenagers.

“You don’t _really_ want to know these things, do you?” Calanthe’s question is purely rhetorical.

Still, Pavetta answers anyways, “No, not at all.”

Calanthe hums at that. _Wise decision, child._

Her face becomes impassive, but not closed off. The way she always looks when her mind is turning, trying to figure out how to best impart a lesson to her daughter. Finally, she speaks, “Understand that some rumors should be allowed to persist. Some protect, just as others hurt, your reputation. And that sometimes, for good measure, you should allow to diametrically opposed rumors survive, to add to the uncertainty. A clear sight makes for an easy target, love. Don’t ever make it easy for them.”

Pavetta doesn’t ask who they are. She’s not entirely sure Calanthe would know, even if she did ask.

Calanthe’s throat clicks. She blinks quickly, as if something got caught in her eye.

“I know you love your husband.” She offers, voice tight.

That’s as much of an apology as she can muster. Pavetta understands. She quietly returns, “I do. And besides…nothing is decided, yet. We have time.”

Calanthe nods in agreement. After another beat, she ducks her head slightly, turning in to Pavetta once more, as if sharing a secret, “But if—just promise me, Pavetta. You’ll never let anyone stop you from having what you want in life. For having what you need to make it more than just bearable.”

Her dark eyes come up, startling Pavetta with how open they are, how vulnerable.

“Don’t ever let anyone chart your course for you,” she whispers, voice filled with an almost urgent fervor. “Please.”

Pavetta nods, her throat suddenly too tight to speak.

“That’s my girl,” Calanthe smiles again, but it’s a bit too watery. She reaches up to cup Pavetta’s cheek in her hand.

Pavetta understands, yet again, that her mother often does dark and terrible things in the name of love. And now that she has a daughter of her own—a daughter also already promised to another, taken away from her without any chance to refuse—she understands exactly how such a juxtaposition is possible. She simply smiles, forgiving her mother of so many past ills.

She looks out to the river, to her daughter, who is currently floating aimlessly, still safe in her grandfather’s arms, head propped up on his shoulder, little toes bobbing with the current, eyes closed in an adorably serious expression. Eist’s eyes are closed, too, face tilted to the sun. Both tired out by their shenanigans at last.

“She looks like you,” Calanthe speaks gently, as if afraid of breaking some spell.

Pavetta hums. “That’s about all we have in common.”

“It’ll feel like that, for a while,” Calanthe informs her. She gives Pavetta another smile, “But then it won’t.”

Tears suddenly smart at the corner of Pavetta’s eyes. She merely squeezes her mother’s hand again.

There will always be so many things that they never say, Pavetta realizes. But maybe those things don’t need to be spoken aloud. Maybe they can still be expressed and understood.

The sound of water shifting grabs their attention; they both turn to see Eist wading out of the water, tenderly cradling Ciri in his arms. The child is nearly asleep, big green eyes slowly blinking as she tries to keep them open and fails rather adorably.

Calanthe wraps Ciri in a cloak and lays her down between herself and Pavetta. She gives her husband a lingering smile as well. Pavetta realizes that she doesn’t think she’s ever heard her mother say _I love you_ to Eist, but she’s never doubted the devotion between them. Calanthe shows it in a dozen different ways, from the soft smiles to the way she gently pats his arm as he comes to sit beside her, tilting her head closer to his like a magnet seeking its mate. She places a tiny kiss on his shoulder, sharing his quiet smile again. For some reason, this time Pavetta doesn't feel like she's witnessing something that she shouldn't.

Pavetta gingerly lays down, pulling Ciri closer to her. Her daughter snuggles closer, making a small sound as she tumbles into sleep at last. Calanthe is smiling down at them again, and Pavetta finds herself smiling back.

Yes, they don’t always have to say these things. They can simply look at each other, and know. Pavetta realizes that through it all, regardless of how they got sideways or how little they were alike in temperament, her mother has always looked at her like this. Her mother has always loved her, even if she still doesn’t always know how best to show it. Her own daughter has taught this to her, continues to do so, every day.

Calanthe’s hand comes up to lightly rearrange the wisps of Pavetta’s hair that have gone astray. Then her fingertips grow bolder, simply stroking her daughter’s head in a gentle lulling motion. Pavetta closes her eyes and accepts the unspoken adoration. She kisses her own daughter’s head, feeling a sense of relief in knowing that her mother is right—one day, she’ll be able to look at her wild, tumbling child and know they are far more alike than they are different, that she belongs here, amid the family of daring warriors. Already the feeling of being an outsider, which had been so keen as they’d left the castle earlier, is a memory rather than a state of being.

They stay for a while longer at the river. Pavetta, truly exhausted from the journey, ends up dozing off as well. And here, where her mother can be her softest and truest self, Pavetta feels safer than in any castle filled with guards and blades.


End file.
